“Ouch.” You whined, flinching back away from the cold face cloth Tig was trying to place against one of the larger cuts down your forehead.
“Stop moving.” He chided sternly. With one hand he cradled your face gingerly, and with the other he pressed the face cloth back against your temple. “I’m going to kill them. Every single one of them.” He moved on to caring for another one of your wounds, his face hardening as he took in the damage all over your body.
“Some of these are from when I fell off my motorcycle.” You pointed out. The massive bruise on your leg evident of the motorcycle crashing against it when you toppled over.
“Doesn’t matter. I’ve seen you ride. You wouldn’t have fallen if it wasn’t for them.” Dropping the cloth back into the water Tig picked up a roll of bandages and started trying to take care of your injuries. “I’m going to kill them.”
Do not despair, dear heart, but come to the Lord with all your jagged wounds, black bruises, and running sores. He alone can heal, and He delights to do it. It is our Lord’s office to bind up the brokenhearted, and He is gloriously at home at it.